


Nameless

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Accidental Incest, Age Difference, Alternate Universe- Secret Agents, Codenames, Dave Strider is 007, Dave is a persistent little shit, If you're looking for an actual secret agent plot you've come to the wrong fic., M/M, Mentions of past DirkJake, Oral Sex, Sexual Content, Skyfallstuck, that isnt how you one night stand
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-10 03:31:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You slowly uncoupled a small, haphazardly torn piece of paper with bright red sharpie scrawled across it.</p><p>Dinner tonight?<br/>-007</p><p>You grimaced as a blush involuntarily rose to your cheeks.<br/>God fucking dammit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is (sort of not really) a James Bond Skyfall crossover!  
> For plot relevant purposes, they’re using codenames for these first couple of chapters. Sorry, I know it’s annoying as hell. 
> 
> Dave is 007 and Dirk is Q.
> 
> If you’re any part of the Skyfall fandom you’ll know the reasoning (00Q yeah!). If you’ve never seen the movie, don’t worry about it. There’s nothing really relevant to it other than a Secret Agent setting where Dave can be an international playboy and Dirk can be seduced by him. Enjoy.

“The fuck is this?” 

You stared down at the crushed remains of what would have once been a Walther PPK/S pistol. 

Your custom Walther PPK/s pistol. 

The lump of shredded metal clashed harshly against your streakless glass desk, creating a sharp silhouette of the atrocity to your gadgetry skills. You held a tentative hand towards it, questioning yourself if you could even muster the courage to physically examine the total damage, but opted for glaring up at its owner instead. 

“Double-oh seven,” you seethed, “What. The fuck. Is this.”

The man in front of you gave a nonchalant shrug before turning around to saunter off back to whatever the hell he did when he wasn’t on a mission. 

“ _Double-oh seven_ ,” you repeated harshly.

He smirked at you over his shoulder, his aviator sunglasses obscuring what you knew for sure was an obnoxious glint in his eyes.

“Why Quartermaster, I was under the impression that you wanted any and all equipment returned to you. I was just being a damn fine gentleman over here and handing it over personally.”

God you hated him. Really fucking hated him. If he hadn’t spent his entire career avoiding being killed you would have strangled him at this point.

“When I said that I was assuming your miniscule brain would read into the subtext that I’d like it back in one fucking piece,” you stated, voice filled with venom.

He genuinely smiled at that, flipping back to walk up to your desk again and look at you mischievously.

“Last time I checked it was in one piece. I’m sure you’ll find everything here,” he said, gesturing to the crushed pile then back at you, “Maybe we should get you new glasses there, Q. Wouldn’t want you leading me blind, now would I?” 

He plucked your glasses off childishly, mock inspecting the thick, square, frames inset with clear lenses.

“Got yourself some first class eyewear to a royal asskicking right here. You Instagram your Starbucks this morning too?” 

“Oh that’s real cute,” you retorted, trying to swipe back your property from him with little luck.

“Bet you’d look fuckin’ rad in a pair of shades,” he started, ignoring your exasperation, “I mean, I’m not sure how well you’d be able to pull them off, but it’s worth a shot. It’s really a true staple of the cool persona only a few chosen specimens such as myself possess. It’s like God looked down on us behind his big aviators in the sky and said, hell yeah, those dudes are pretty damn fine and-”

You finally managed to retrieve your glasses with a shove to the blond asshole and a flustered look from yourself. Which must have been funny, because he chuckled in between his words. You shot out a tight frown and moved to arrange a few pieces of spikey gelled hair that had become frazzled in your plights against the taller man. You looked back down at your failed creation, and slowly began picking through the pieces of the gun as he seemingly became lost in a ramble. He was sort of famous for those. They weren’t quite as intricate or well-crafted as your own metaphors, but apparently they’d gotten him out of trouble among several field missions so you were in no state to complain. 

With a sigh you deemed the pistol’s casing unsalvageable, but some of the inner workings were intact. It would still be a complete overhaul though, and you never trusted anyone but yourself to work on the 00 agents’ gadgets. This meant overtime of course, but at least you could assure that the job would be done right.

Shame, you had really wanted to make progress on your Kamina cosplay this weekend too.

“Anyway, this thing’s pretty wrecked so-“

“Do you know how long it took me to fucking build this?” you interrupted him. “It is— _was_ —state of the art owner-recognizing technology. Do you know what that means? It means I had to stare at your ugly-ass fingerprints for two weeks straight while coding each and every little groove into the stupid fucking program. Every. Fucking. Groove. Of your godforsaken hand into this fucking gun so that it will work when you use it and only when you use it. And what do you do? You completely obliterate it on its second mission out.”

It’s hard to read under his shades, but you notice a small glimmer of guilt cross his face—quickly being replaced by his infuriating smirk again.

“Whoa there, Quartermaster,” he leered, “I didn’t know your relationship with my hands was so…”

He placed a pale hand on your cheek, rubbing it lightly over a cheekbone, “ _Intimate_.”

“Get out of my fucking office,” you deadpanned, slapping his hand away without breaking your glare at him.

He grinned, and it was irritatingly adorable because he’s got fucking dimples. He was over thirty years old why the hell did he look like a mischievous child.

“Alright, alright. A man’s gotta know when he’s not wanted. But I’m leaving for Morocco on Tuesday so it’d be really sweet if-“

“It’ll be done. You can pick it up on Monday.”

He hugs you over your desk in an overexcited teenaged girl fashion, and you stiffen at the abrupt contact.

“Fuck yeah! You’re the best, kid”

“Don’t call me kid,” you said dryly.

“You’re still a kid, I don’t care how big of a department you run.”

Your eye twitched, and you know he knows he’s hit a nerve. Ever since he’d met you he’d made a critical effort to find and hone in on all your buttons. A feat he was surprisingly good at.

“Then again,” he mused, tilting his head to the side, “I’ve been in this business over a decade longer than you and you’re by far the smartest Q I’ve worked with, so congrats, _kid_.”

He held out a hand for a fist bump, and against your better judgment, you returned it.

“You’re insufferable,” you sighed.

“It’s a talent.”

He lifted up his aviators for a second, sparing you a quick wink so fast you it was hard to even register his eye color, before plastering them back down on his face and literally swagging out your office door.

“Don’t let the door hit your pansy ass on the way out!” you yelled out as swiftly as you could, but it’s a week attempt at gaining the last word so you only receive a laugh in reply.

You sat down and sunk into your office chair, gazing around the modern office left to you after the last Quartermaster had retired. While you usually worked outside with your fellow Q branch associates, being alone for meetings or significant projects was always nice. You’d always been a bit of a loner.

You shook your head and silently grumbled; huffing down to work on the ruined pistol he’d left you. You pulled out a sleek briefcase from the side of your desk, opening it to reveal an assortment of tools and helpful electronics. First up; salvaging. 

You let the fix-up job overtake your thoughts for a bit, and it was nice. Getting absorbed with tinkering had always been your solution to pesky emotions and your horrid “urges” still lingering from your teenaged days. You’d always been a bit ruffled by toned men in suits. It didn’t help that 007 was so frustratingly flirtatious.

You weren’t infatuated.

You weren’t.

He was attractive, sure, but you could totally ignore his lithe frame and compact but powerful muscles and his almost white-blonde hair and that flash of his eyes that almost looked fucking /crimson-

You focused your own pale gold eyes on the task at hand, pushing down your embarrassing thoughts as you investigated the remainder of the ruined pistol’s barrel. You broke it open, wondering if it had somehow managed to get clogged and had therefore been the culprit of its current demolished state. Instead, however, you found a foreign component. You slowly uncoupled a small, haphazardly torn piece of paper with bright red sharpie scrawled across it.

_Dinner tonight?_  
 _-007_

You grimaced as a blush involuntarily rose to your cheeks.

God fucking dammit.

You flipped the paper around to find a Pesterchum and a phone number, with a tiny little attempt at what must have been an anime-style doodle. It was pretty shitty, but from an ironic standpoint, fucking fantastic.

It made you wonder if he understood you, or if he really just was a bad artist with horrible pick-up tactics.

-

\--timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG]\--  
TT: I hate to metaphorically shoot you down, because we all know I’d be dead in ten seconds if I tried to actually shoot you down, but aren’t you like almost forty or something?  
TG: age is just a number baby  
TT: Would it be precocious to make the assumption you had that prepared.  
TG: at some point i had to figure out a comeback  
TG: dont ever grow up kid trust me it sucks  
TT: For the last time don’t call me a fucking kid. Especially when you’re asking me out.  
TG: who says im asking you out  
TG: cant a man ask his coworker to go out for some good platonic food every once in while  
TG: what happened to the good old days of no homo and nice brodates  
TT: God, you type like a fucking tool.  
TT: I think I’m getting a headache.  
TG: and you type like a pretentious bastard but you dont see me complaining  
TT: Wow. Way to woo me out of my panties, Mr. Playboy. Now I can really see the numerous rumors about your romantic escapades during your “travels.”  
TG: we really gonna do the code thing q  
TG: you put fucking air quotes around it  
TG: no sir nothing suspicious here at all just some random air quotes surrounding my  
TG: “““travels”””  
TT: The fact that you called me Q means that we are, indeed, doing the code thing.  
TT: Though I admit I’ll refrain from the quotations from now on.  
TG: i call you q because i dont know your actual name douchebag  
TG: all these fucking codes and shit  
TG: cant even ask a guy out to dinner without triggering five hundred goddamn rules  
TT: Dude, you know just as well as I do that if our identities were leaked major shit would transpire.  
TT: Let’s keep things professional, hm?  
TG: professional and nameless  
TT: Correct.  
TG: yeah whatever  
TG: you down for dinner or not  
TT: That was the most ineloquent way to formally ask a guy out on a date I’ve ever seen/read.  
TG: PLEASE are you down for dinner or not  
TG: that more eloquent for you to see/read  
TT: Your new proposal doesn’t even make sense and is still atrociously informal, bro.  
TG: take it or leave it  
TT: You do realize I’m a decade younger than you, right?  
TG: you here to harass me for bein an old pervert or you gonna accept the offer  
TT: Fine.  
TG: fuck really  
TT: Were you expecting different?  
TG: course not  
TG: it is me were talking about here  
TT: When is it not.  
TG: oh shut the fuck up  
TT: I remain practically drooling over your unrivaled fuckin’ romanticism.  
TT: You truly do have a way with words, 007.  
TG: i wasnt done asshole  
TG: I meant shut the fuck up  
TG: and prepare to be fucking swept off your unnecessarily sarcastic feet  
TG: and by swept i mean caressed by the wings of ten thousand feathered angels as you flutter softy from the ground and alight daintily among the clouds in a whirlwind of pure fuckin swoon  
TG: some fine shakespearian shitll be going down in here  
TG: youll be left goddamn speechless  
TG: no room for any snark here now is there  
TT: Rest assured I’ll carry my expectations high then.  
TT: I get off at six.  
TG: heh  
TG: get off  
TT: You have the mindset of a fucking twelve year old.  
TG: B)  
TG: ill pick you up then  
TG: you want the bentley or the aston martin  
TT: Aston Martin.  
TG: good choice  
TT: Also, let’s keep it relatively simple. I’m still in my work clothes.  
TG: that shitty t shirt and cargo pants  
TG: theres no fucking way im going out with you in that  
TT: Charming. I’m falling head over heels by the second over here.  
TG: why dont you reel in that sassy mouth of yours for five goddamn seconds huh  
TG: how bout i swing you by your place and you can change into a nice suit  
TT: One, that is obviously a ploy to obtain my home address because potential date or not you’re an agent and agents love their intel on those they pursue. Which is really fucking creepy, by the way.  
TT: And two, I don’t own a suit.  
TG: one shut up its an instinct  
TG: two are you fucking serious  
TT: I’m afraid I don’t stalk around in egotistical clothes every day like an egotistical prick.  
TG: you never miss a chance to insult me do you  
TT: “It’s a talent.”  
TG: i hate you  
TT: But you want me.  
TG: god dammit q  
TG: ill see you at six  
TG: well figure out your trainwreck of a clothes situation then  
TT: Lookin’ forward to it.  
\--turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT]\-- 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're in need of reference for Dirk's character design (which will shift to shades, don't worry) I wanted him to look kind of like actual Q from Skyfall with the nerdy-hip glasses and look.

You honestly hated to say you were out of your comfort zone because it was embarrassing to admit that your comfort zone equaled out to the compiled square space of only the Q Branch and your apartment. However, here in some ostentatious restaurant in a goddamn suit, you were going to admit you were pretty fucking out of your comfort zone. In fact, you were fairly sure you’d completely bypassed your comfort zone at this point and officially landed in discomfort territory, headed straight for discomposure city, eventually blasting off into the anxiety attack subsection of paradox space and beyond. Which was someplace you preferred to never visit unless extremely prompted.

Your blond date cocked an eyebrow at you in question, as if in sensing your unease. He was holding your hand on the table in a rather childish first-date manner, and for some reason it bothered you to know that the move probably wooed all sorts of unsuspecting targets into impromptu one night stands. You’d deduced long before he’d even picked you up that this was obviously just another one of his infamous antics to get laid on home soil before heading off into the unknown again. You’d decided you’d humor him on the date though, if only to see him agitated when you slammed the door of your apartment in his face afterwards. 

But he’d shown up genuinely enough, with his typical smirk and a brand new suit for you in hand, and you’d found the way he opened the passenger door for you like you were the goddamn queen to be infuriatingly sweet. 

(Apparently he’d tracked down the one place in the whole city that sold your signature hat T-shirts and obtained your size via breaking into their customer database. The suit was a little awkwardly fitting in some places, but considering the guy probably guessed a large portion of your measurements it looked pretty nice. You’d had to remind yourself that you’d accepted to go on a date with one of the most accomplished secret agents in the world.) 

“You alright there?” said secret agent asked as you pushed around the miniscule amount of extravagant food that had been placed in front of you. He’d annoyingly insisted on ordering for you, but judging by the plates of the rich patrons around you, it was about as big of portion size you were going to get in a place like this.

“Oh yes, fine. Really know how to put a date at ease, double-oh,” you replied stiffly.

He cringed slightly, his pale skin almost glowing from the orange light of overly extravagant chandeliers around you. 

“I’m trying my hardest. You’re not exactly the most accommodating escort.”

“At this point I would have preferred McDonalds.”

“I think you’re the first person I’ve ever taken out who’s actually said that to me.”

“Well maybe I’m the first who hasn’t fucking slobbered over your money covered loins and worshiped them like their last savior of the Earth.”

He chuckled at that, and playfully squeezed your hand before patting it a few times. He’d been completely casual through all of this, chatting with a few friends among the other customers and even going insofar as to flirt with your server. You’d been unable to pinpoint why you’d been so irked by this, but to her credit she had mistaken you for brothers rather than dates. You kept forgetting that you still carried a bit of your teenaged baby-face and lanky limbs, and that Dave was as filled out and manly as they came—not to mention a good ten years your senior. You must be a pretty weird-ass looking couple, but that didn’t stop you from giving her an angered stare until she’d finally clued in.

“You’re not mad at me though, right?”

You looked up at him and shrugged with disinterest. “Why would I be mad at you, you’re paying for this shit aren’t you?”

You made a disgusted face at the food and he seemed a bit put off. You let yourself have a small pat on the back for all these recent victories over him. If he thought he could get in your pants with a couple suave words and foo-foo food he needed definitely re-think his strategy. 

“I meant about the gun.”

Oh. Was he still worried about that? You didn’t peg him for someone who’d dote over others’ opinions about him, but then again he _was_ pretty egocentric.

“Did you destroy the pistol just so that you could invite me on this horrid date?” You gave him an inquisitive look, and he shook his head swiftly.

“Of course not. I’m just a man that will seize any bizarre yet ironically sincere opportunity to ask a guy out.”

You snickered, taking a sip of your orange soda you’d had the foresight to bring from your office. When you’d pulled it out of your satchel he’d worn that same irritated expression that he’d given you when you’d complained about the suit and the food, as if you were insulting him by simply not caring about his overpriced garbage. Besides, you’d been fairly sure he would not be taking you any place with a soda fountain and a dinner without Fanta is a crying shame.

“Then there’s no problem,” you said simply, “It’s your job to complete your mission no matter the cost, and your life is far more important than a stupid gun.”

He smiled smugly at you, and it took you a minute to realize your mistake.

“Why Q, I’m flattered,” he said, flirtatious tone returning full force.

“Oh fuck, I didn’t mean it like that-“

“I didn’t know you cared so much for me! Should have told me. We could’ve done this sooner.”

You rubbed your temples in irritation, glaring at him from underneath your glasses. 

“I meant that in the sense that if you die, it’s my fault because you were ill-equipped. That’s it. I don’t want an agent’s death pinned on me.”

Your date mulled this over a bit. “But you care?”

“Of course I care, douchebag. You’re my responsibility.” 

The words sounded stupid as soon as they came out of your mouth. You grimaced. He noticed.

“Whoa there, kiddo, might want to leave some of that great big _responsibility_ for the adults here,” he mocked, and you groaned as loudly as possible.

“Fine, let me rephrase that again. I don’t care about you. You’ve single handedly destroyed more of my weapons than all the other agents put together, and if I’m offering my guidance while you’re in the field you practically never listen,” you snarled at him, shaking your head, “I… I worry, that’s all.”

007 looked like he was processing what you’d just explained to him, absentmindedly swishing around what may or may not have been a twenty-dollar amount of fancy apple juice in his own glass. He leaned his cheek against his palm in a casual manner, a smile spreading across his face—with his dimples showing, goddamn—as he let your statement sink in without a reply. Finally he tilted his head up, letting you know he was looking at you beneath his glasses.

“What,” you deadpanned.

“Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

“I told you it’s nothing.” His grin grew.

“What the hell is it.”

“It’s just…” he reached over and ruffled your hair, “You’re cute.” 

You slapped his hand away. It seemed like you had to do that a lot.

“Fuck you. I am not cute,” you shot out.

His hand returned, to your face this time, gently stroking your cheek. He used his other hand to slowly lift his shades up.  
Your glimpse from before had been correct, and his eyes shown a bright scarlet.

“Reduced melanin, partial albinism,” he stated, settling the glasses on the top of his head, secured behind his ears, “Nothing too remarkable other than the eyes. But they’re an abnormal trait that can identify me while undercover, so Rose, er, M I guess to you, makes me keep ‘em covered.”

“I… see.”

“They’re pretty creepy regardless, but I can see you without anything being tinted now.”

You blushed again, and he brushed a calloused fingertip over the pink dusting now joining your freckles before cupping your face. It would have been endearing, had he not been practically smooshing your cheeks in the most childish way ever. How this guy even managed to make it past first base was beyond you.

“Yep, still cute.”

“I am not-“

He leaned forward over the dinner table, and you shrunk back slightly on instinct. He paused, lips only a fraction of space away from your own, and let his breath ghost tauntingly over your lips. Your own breath shortened in reply.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked with a smirk.

“I’m pretty damn sure you _can_ kiss me. But _may_ you.”

“I swear to God, Q. You start pulling that middle school teacher crap like Rose does I’m gonna flip a bitch.”

“Then start asking grammatically correct questions.”

“ _May_ I kiss you, douchewad.”

“Yes.”

His bright eyes were calculating this close up, and you felt his pupils raking over your skin, analyzing every single freckle, too-sharp cheek bone, and premature wrinkle on your face.

“Are you sure?”

You gave out a huff of frustrated air In reply, and closed the distance yourself. 

He kept a firm grip on your face and pulled you closer, lowering his other hand to rest lightly on your neck. The first thing you noticed was that his lips tasted strangely sweet, and you remembered the apple juice he’d been drinking before with new admiration. Once the initial awkwardness was gone (you’d never claimed to be an expert kisser) you pushed a little harder, and you felt him smile against your lips. It wasn’t anything spectacular but felt good, even though you were fairly sure the sparks you were feeling were just passive bouts of unsubstantial physical attraction.

007 pulled back slightly, but kept your forehead against his.

“Was that your first kiss?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Of course not. What kind of twenty-five year old hasn’t kissed someone,” you retorted.

“Well you suck at it.”

“You suck at it!” you stuttered.

“I can also deepthroat.”

You stared at each other for several extended moments, eyes searching to gauge the other’s reaction. Finally you hung your head, muffling an assortment of small laughs seeping through your stoic nature and the hands you’d covered you mouth with.

“God, that was a horrible comeback—Fuck, I can’t breathe-”

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’ on my lines-that-will-possibly-seduce-my-Quartermaster list.”

You looked up from your hands, still giggling, “You have a fuckin’ list?”

“For you, babe, I’ve got an entire novel.”

“You can put a ‘no’ for that one as well.”

He laughed now, and you both were reduced to hysterics as the patrons around you cast annoyed glances your way. You could care less though. 007 was, dare you say it, _cute_ when he laughed. Without his sunglasses you could see the twinkling in his eyes within their cherry-red brightness. 

“I think we should probably ditch this joint, kid,” your date said, looking at a particularly agitated waiter, “Been thrown out of this place to many times at it is. Try and assassinate one guy on their property and they never look at you the same.”

“Sounds like a plan,” you smiled, “Will my dashing escort who’s done a fuck-up job of making me swoon tonight be willing to give me a lift home?”

He stood up, swirling his hand around a bit before offering it to you in a ridiculous overdramatic fashion.

“What kind of shitty gentleman would I be if I didn’t?”

“You say that as if you weren’t a shitty gentleman in the first place, dude.”

“Ouch, Q. Way to hurt a dude’s feelings.”

“Shut up and pay the bill, asshole.”


End file.
